


telegraphic

by Imkerin



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6179764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/pseuds/Imkerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Chamberlin, Neville and Carragher then disappear. Where have they gone? “Oh that’s just ‘the walk’,” one colleague says. The walk?"</i>
</p><p>Phil misreads a Telegraph article and it changes Gary’s life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	telegraphic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/gifts).



It's Phil's fault, and that honestly makes the whole thing worse in a disturbingly twisted sort of way that Gary prefers not to think about except when the alternative is thinking about _it_.

 

The whole thing started like this: Gary and Phil were having what was ostensibly a working breakfast at Phil's, except that Gary was fiddling with something (he can't remember what, precisely, anymore, but he's fairly sure it had been important at the time) on his phone and Phil was reading the tabloids on his Ipad instead of refreshing for the Cup or brushing up on his Spanish or whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. Gary had just taken a swallow of tea. He remembers that part very clearly because in the next instant, Phil had spat _his_ mouthful of tea clear across the table and Gary had dropped the rest of his cup in his lap and then upset the table trying to get his trousers off, sending the sugar bowl plates, and crusts of toast flying across the room. 

After that they’d shouted at each other for a few very confused minutes before Gary had gone up and stolen a pair of Phil’s trousers while Phil had swept up the bits of china and toast and sugar and mostly mopped up all the tea, leaving Gary to get them new cups when he came back. Once they’d finally got sat down again, Gary had said: “What the hell was that about?” and Phil had evaded the question for a good five minutes until he had finally broken and shoved the (somehow intact) tablet under Gary’s nose, waited til he’d focused on the Telegraph article in question, and said It: “I thought it said _that’s just ‘the wank’_.”

Gary had called him a dickhead again and forgotten about it entirely until Ed had shown up at make-up with Carra in tow the next week, mid-argument, and Carra had rolled his eyes in that irritating way of his and made a sarcastic wanking off gesture. Then the whole stupid conversation had crashed back into Gary like a ton of bricks, alongside a startlingly clear mental image of what Carra would look like with his trousers undone and his cock out in the empty meeting room down the hall. ‘It’s a bit of superstition,’ his mind supplied for him in Ed’s voice helpfully, with the sort of spot-on accuracy that only seemed to happen when you most didn’t want it to. ‘It’s a chance to clear our heads’.

Only it was just Carra in his head, slouching there alone against the wall, head tilted back and cheeks drawn in slightly on a gasp. Maybe he should’ve been thankful even then that it wasn’t Ed too; he sort of halfway is now, because it’s bad enough finding out that you’d really, really like to have a fucking wank with one of your co-workers without making it two at once, but he hadn’t been; he’d mostly stuck to thinking _oh fuck_ , the horror and awkwardness of it just enough to keep his own dick from getting irretrievably interested.

 

So that’s that, and if it had just been the one time, Gary could have got on with it, he could have moved on with his life because he’s a grown man and can, and _has_ , handled unpleasant realizations like ‘I’m going to have to retire’ and ‘it’s 3 am and there’s no milk in the house’ and ‘Jamie Carragher is attractive’. But it’s not just the one time, it’s every time he walks past the make-up room, and every time there’s a meeting in that staff room, and every time Carra rolls his eyes or turns his face or purses his lips around a word so his cheekbones stand out, and every time Carra says something unexpectedly nice about him to some rag or another, or suggests they all go and have a drink after Sky’s wrapped up. 

Especially that last one, because it takes his fantasies about some kind of patently stupid work-related wank ritual and makes them into something that could be halfway real. Him and Carra, alone together late at night in some pub, ties askew, Carra moaning about Liverpool’s latest disaster in that awful Scouse of his. Carra _moaning_ , suit gone and kneeling in Gary’s bed, still as fit as if he could go straight back to the pitch any day he wanted. Hand on his cock and letting Gary watch him stroke himself off, showing off for him, the strong lines of his thighs begging to be touched.

He’s still thinking about it, about that one in particular, some seven months later, pulling his gloves on just outside the door of the studio. It’s pitch black and miserably cold and foggy and he’s not paying attention to much besides the Carra in his head, so the one that turns up suddenly at his elbow makes him jolt nearly out of his skin. “Jesus Christ,” he says, reflexively.

Carra smiles lopsidedly at him and Gary suddenly knows, with a sinking, terrible certainty, that whatever comes out of that mouth, he’s going to agree to. “Awful out tonight,” Carra says.

“Yes,” Gary says. Carra has a fleck of something, a thread or a speck of leftover makeup or something, just on the edge of his ear, and Gary stares at it so as not to look at his mouth any more.

“Want a drink?”

Ed isn’t anywhere in sight. Behind Carra, one of the staffers waves a goodnight on his way to the parking garage, but doesn’t stop to be included in the invitation. “Yes,” Gary says.

 

Carra doesn’t whinge about Liverpool, and they both have their coats on tight against the chill lingering from outside, so it’s not really all that much like his now-threadbare fantasy. But his foot is resting casually against Gary’s under the table, and a bit of foam from his second pint is caught on his lip until he licks it off, a flash of perfect pink tongue that somehow hadn’t ever factored into Gary’s imagination beforehand, and goes back to talking out his thoughts on Q.P.R. Gary goes back to finishing his drink, until he discovers there isn’t any more and Carra’s leg shifts against his at about the same time, and he stumbles up to his feet and towards the toilets with no more than a “Just a minute,” cutting Carra off mid-sentence.

It is blessedly empty, which means there’s no one around to see him punch the wall and then swear at it because he’s nowhere near drunk enough for it not to hurt, and nowhere near drunk enough to not feel like a complete arse about being so hard he’s about to come in his pants like a 17 year old on his very first date from sitting around listening to Jamie-fucking-Carragher going on endlessly about Charlie Austin. He’s pretty sure this isn’t even _a_ date. When he’d left, Carra had looked startled and earnest and not at all like he’d been attempting to play footsie, or invite himself over to Gary’s, or _oh fuck_.

He has to put his hand down his trousers to adjust himself and it feels like the only luck he’s had all year that he’s got it back out again when the door swings open and Carra comes in, expression infuriatingly, innocently solicitous.

“Alright?” he says.

“Yeah,” Gary says. His mind helpfully adds ‘in the bathroom of the pub right down the road from the studio’ to its list of places to imagine Carra wanking for him in. He wonders if it would clear his head or help him focus better. He wonders if Carra could be quiet enough, when he got off, to not get them caught. He wonders if they’re both drunk enough that Carra would forget it if he came on to him (no) or drunk enough for Gary to get away with claiming temporary insanity (probably also no.) He says it anyway, because he can’t not anymore: “Listen -- Carra -- d’you want to go home?”

Carra’s brow furrows in a slow bulldoggish way that Gary knows, he _knows_ , he used to find aggravating and ridiculous. “With you?” he says finally. 

Gary’s mouth feels disgustingly dry, but Carra hasn’t punched him or laughed in his face, and something in his gut is taking that as encouragement. “Who else?”

 

They stumble into Gary’s tiny London flat, Gary still in a vague fog of shock and Carra -- he has no idea what Carra’s excuse is, either for being here at all or for tripping over his shoes as he takes them off and barging into Gary, shoving him hard into the wall. 

“Fuck,” Gary says eloquently into the vicinity of Carra’s collarbone, breath half knocked out of him.

“Do you want to?” Carra says.

It actually takes Gary a minute to put that together; somehow he’d never figured Carra the type for cheesy lines. “Jesus,” he says, in awed disgust, and then quickly, “Yeah, yes.”

“Right,” Carra says, and takes an unsteady step back to start peeling himself out of his coat. 

Gary wants to watch, to savor it all, but he forces himself to get his numb hands to work stripping off his own coat and gloves. By the time he’s done with that, Carra’s got his jacket off too and is working on the buttons of his dress shirt, baring the hollow of his throat and the sweep of his undershirt beneath it that drags Gary’s eyes down lower, down to the obscenely thick bulge of Carra’s cock in his trousers. His own twitches hard in his pants, the waistband damp with precome already, and when he finally manages to look back up at Carra’s face he’s smiling a little, not really a smirk, just like-- 

“Go on,” Gary says. “Get it all off, then.”

\--just like he likes Gary watching him.

He thinks Carra might have stripped all the way down bare in the foyer if he’d let him, but as soon as he’s got his trousers open Gary grabs him by the wrist and pulls him into the bedroom, slamming on the lights and ditching his own jacket as they go. They half-sit, half collapse onto the bed and in the tumble Gary’s hand ends up high on Carra’s hard stomach, just at the edge of his undershirt where it’s all rucked up. His trousers are gaping open from the walk and tented up by his cock and Gary can see, can’t look away from, the line of his pants, the way they’re pulled up away from his skin, the thick hair underneath.

Carra shuffles under him, kicking his trousers off so they fly half across the room. His hand closes over his cock through the thin white fabric and he and Gary groan at the same time, embarrassingly in sync. Carra laughs a little, but his breath is thin and shaky as he drags his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing the wetness around until the cloth’s nearly translucent.

“Let me see it,” Gary says, too starving for this to think about whether he’s going to be cringing in the morning over how into it he sounds -- he _is_ \-- now. Carra pushes down the waistband with one hand and pulls his cock out with the other, getting a good long stroke of himself as he does, base to tip with his fist tight around it. 

It’s big, even bigger than Gary’d imagined, thick and fat so it fills up Carra’s big hand, foreskin catching briefly at the glans as Carra’s hand slides back down, then stops still, waiting, holding it for Gary to look at. He tears his eyes away, glances up at Carra: he’s breathing hard, red across the cheeks, and Gary’s struck by how familiar it is, how much he looks like he’s just played a hard game. They should’ve been doing this for ages, for years. He moves up the bed a little, shoulder to shoulder with him, and says, “Show me how you do it.”

How he does it is slow and even strokes over the whole length of his cock, a little twist with his fingers as he gets down to the base, his shoulders pressing back into Gary’s bed as he lifts his hips up a hair higher every time, watching Gary watching him. His breath is so loud in the empty air of the room, hissing, shuddering gasps, and under it the maddening noise of skin on skin. “Gary,” he says, and it shouldn’t sound so good, even like this his name in that voice shouldn’t sound so good, “come on, you too, I want to watch.”

Gary has his trousers and pants off in seconds and his hand on his cock an instant after that, choked up tight because he’s going to come too fast anyway. Carra beats him to it by bare seconds, spurting up over his belly in thick jets, his mouth open in a surprisingly quiet moan. It looks so good, so much like what he’s been wanting all these last months, that Gary only just manages to get up on top of him, straddling his thighs, before he’s coming too, laying it right over Carra’s, a few last stripes falling across his still-twitching cock and making Gary’s hips jerk with the sight of it. “Fuck,” he says, “god, fuck.”

Carra doesn’t make a stupid joke this time but he does keep stroking himself, slower again, smearing Gary’s come over his cock, rubbing it into the skin, his mouth wide in a stupid, sated smile, and Gary thinks, helplessly, this can’t be the last time.

“Come here,” Carra says, and he does.


End file.
